I welcome suggestions, impressions, commentary. Send it to your friends, they need something to read. I'll make it easy and use english words but not so easy you zone out on the likes. I promise it won't read like the crop of urban fiction spawned by Sex In the City crumb-snatching ho-bags. I promise to eulogize Jam Master Jay. I promise to kick it up a notch. Again, I promise you fisticuffs, big love, duplicity, psychoses, solitary characters, Ohio farmland, good sex, Now & Laters, talk shows, puffy coats and timberlands;

I promise you Chicago and Pittsburgh and the Brooklyn Bridge;

I have the audacity to not mention 9-11;

I will massage your toes.

I can also promise you that I will be celibate like the monks deep in the french Alps, concentrating only on that which will make my readers happy.

Monday, October 28, 2002

Chillyville 10.28.02

I have a sniffle. One of those sniffle you wish wouldn't sneak up on you and smack you sneeze-producer hard on the back, thereby causing "sneeze," thereby causing, "aw, eww, that's my notebook." Yeah. I'm a blog whore and I'm telling you about my nasal troubles because I swear they have propelled me throughout my house this afternoon, as I tried to study for statistics. Like I'll learn anything.

As far as interesting stories go, this certainly is not one of them. But, the lunacy is coming. Four days. National Writing Month-- click on that link if you want to join in a 50,000 word lollapalooza.

The NY Metropolitans, Apu's favorite squadron, have been chassing the base-tossing Lou Piniella up and down in the papers. And the Seattle Mariners, where he is currently a manager (but has asked out of his position to be on the east coast) have basically put up the prison style glsss wall between he and the Mets. No conjugal visits, Lou.

Now, Lou has an offer from the woeful Tampa Bay Devil Rays (sports fans, you want to read that link). Which he might accept. This is, by the way, indication that he is senile. I have no idea what compensation the Ray-Rays could have come up with, since they can't field a major league team... but Lou wants 'em, and the Mets have moved quickly to unofficially hire Art Howe.

Maybe Art Howe is too mild mannered. And why did the Oakland A’s let him go anyway? Will this be a disaster? Who’s to say. But I think a calming presence might be good in a Met clubhouse tired of Bobby Valentine’s self-promoting yammering next to Steve Phillips’ self-promoting yammering.

Maybe this team needs a kick in the ass, but they should be adult enough to play for themselves-- Mo Vaughn and Mike Piazza should be doing the talking--

But maybe only in my dream world….

I hope the best for Art, because he couldn’t do worse than last year’s Mets.

Besides, how important is this in a world where Kangol's web site is asking me the salient questions concerning our western democracy?

Props to Arroz the Rice-A-Homie, for I have now met Miss America. Not the married and buxom Mrs. America (hey mother… want another?), but the honest to God, Donald trump crowned Miss Illinois, Miss Erica Harold. Now, if you were watching as un diligently as I was, you will need this recap-- she ran for Miss America under a platform against bullying.

Which to me sounded, at first, like the platform against twice-warmed steak.

But she has a tale about being harassed by the corn-fed denizens if her mid-Illinois school, and how the administration did nothing to stop the racial and physical threats levied against her. This was some of the content of her opening speech at the roundtable breakfast/ discussion, designed to convince media people to add more realistic depictions of bullying in their work.

There was some discussion of solutions which often came in the form of asking where the teachers were, as if they hold the authority over the children. It’s been my opinion that children hold the authority over themselves. Of course, it’s best not to let them know that, because they will go crazy with it.

The power of having a heterogeneous school, filled with different communities of children, is the way to make kids feel comfortable, I started to think after listening to kid talk about how the “Fame” school has no tolerance for, well, intolerance. Much like my high school. In a sense. But both of our schools have many different niches for the kids, so no one feels really left out on a large level.

This event took place in the stylish offices of MTV, and there I was, a guest of the estimable Rice-A-Homie. It was kind of interesting. But in truth, I was not the one who got to shake her hand and take a picture with the crown over my head, as this other fellow did.

But that’s okay, really, because I met Newsday columnist Steve Jacobsen, and I done learned something.

DOS.

I walked across a busy midday midtown in a rush after this event, since I was already good and late. I’d called my friend Ellen to have her come down an receive a 5-inch gift in the plaza in front of her building.

What? It was a CD filled with the most ignorant current rap songs I could possibly find. Destined to make her laugh. Then she announced she was really going through with plans to leave the country for Mexico. This is what happens when you’re out of touch.

TREY

And on the subway home, I am trying to fall asleep. I close my eyes, curl into a ball, make sure no one has their legs or bags touching me. I tried reading. I tried counting lights through the window.

I couldn’t fall asleep. And I was really friggin’ tired from my short morning in the city. I had reading to do, a paper to write, more midterms to study for. So I simply watched the people; focusing on the squat fella in the bright white mesh Kangol for Safari time on the subway.

There was a girl with an art-sized portfolio bag falling asleep down the aisle. Across me on other red-orange-red F-train seats, was a woman who had just sat down on the train, visibly upset. Next to her soon sat an angelic Polynesian or possibly Hispanic beauty-- maybe a little young but well-dressed in powder blues and white from her fitting jeans to a sleeved shirt and a sweater over the shirt.

She was scribbling furiously; and from my distance I could see the writing was impossibly small, like a crib sheet for a test you have not studied for.

Nothing to notice, but the upset woman looks like the world is falling on her head. The angelic woman stands, hands the woman the paper, which looks as if it has another paper wrapped in it, and whispers something to her. I wonder why they had not acted as if they knew each other previously-- were they sisters?

The upset woman reads the note, and covers her mouth, then her face. She gasps. She starts talking to the woman sitting next to me. I think maybe they know each other also.

“Oh, my, God,” the upset woman says. “Oh my God.”

Being concerned straphangers, the Kangol and the woman next to me ask her what happened.

Apparently the upset woman had been released from some employ after an argument, an incident, and some racial slurs from her boss. Who then refused to pay her for the half-week of work she had done. The woman was upset because she really needed the money, obviously. But there was no recourse for her to go back and get the money, so she was simply upset.

Now, I don’t know where the angelic girl came from-- she didn’t look as if she could be possibly over 20-- but she wrote a note to this woman and enclosed some unspecified amount of money with the note “God Loves You.”

To which the upset woman responds, “There really is a God. Oh my God. God loves me. I’m going to cry-- I have to get off the train.”

And she walked off the train at either Van Wyck or Sutphin, looking to all the world as if she had enough joy for three or four people.

Tuesday, October 22, 2002

Knickercrockers 10.22.02

Here’s my question-- why can’t the Knicks ever find any of these guys? This is a list of tall people, recent draftees, late-blooming European players, youthful warriors that people find because they spend time looking for cost-effective players who can contribute in some facet of the game. These are the guys who make your team competitive, the guys that fans come to see.

We’ve got Shandon Anderson and Howard Eisley for 6 years. No talent ass-clowns. Shouldn’t NBA guards be able to either “shoot” or “slash?”

I want an explanation for that, not how a spoiled NBA man-child hurt his wrist. I mean, fucking yawn. This is a petty reaction to a player who, admittedly, has a hard time following anyone else’s instructions. The public knows it; the organizations know it; the players know it.

NBA players are not the most responsible people. You would, yes, like your franchise (such as it is) to not go out and break his wrist in whatever manner he did it in. But Spree’s going to be out a few weeks. Call him an idiot. Fine him a small amount. Welcome him back into the fold, because this is no morality play.

Fine guys for beating their wives, for being caught with the roach in their car, for embarrassing the organization in strip clubs by tipping poorly. Don’t stand up there, all tight-lipped and tell us that Spree can’t play because he’s been bad. He needs to sit in the corner with his dunce cap on until he learns to play right with the other kids.

Stop hanging your coat up wrong, Latrell. Latrell, stop walking out of line. Latrell, if you don’t come inside and stop chasing those birds, we’re going to fine you for all of your juice and milk and cheese sandwiches and sloppy joes for two weeks!

For me, it's easy to forget sometimes why this "interpersonal contact" is a little important. Easy to study a little, recline in my basement, watch unending episodes of dating shows and laugh at the foibles of the obnoxious.

Sometimes I come out. That’s what midterms often do. I was preparing for my Saturday midterm, and I thought to myself, I’m going to have to do something after this one. My head was already hurting, I had not slept enough, and I was not ready for that jelly, financial management would not be bootylicious.

Then again, was it really necessary to step out into the night air? When I could go home, sleep, read a book, maybe watch a movie?

But all of that reclusive action makes for more fun when Pico does go out. Because sometimes Pico remembers he was once good for a party, filled with inane conversation, flirty jokes, and a hip swivel that Elvis jacked from the immortal Pico Dulce.

I digress. I’d like to thank everyone I came across for an evening that was fun as hell. For no good reason. I discussed my burgeoning rap career, was reacquainted with a pair of very cool ladies I met last year, and much like Ice Cube, I didn’t even have to use my A-K. I stepped out to Gulshan’s to play (sir, you are going to get the goofiest mix you’ve ever received) and I must say, if you haven’t been to Gulshan’s parties after hours, then you haven’t been. See, other people start kicking people out and go to sleep around 4. Not this homie, aw naw. I think it’s cool that I left at 5.45 and got home quickly. By subway. I was home a little after 7, and after I slept past my bus stop.

Marla, you shoulda stayed. It was silly. I discovered things about potato chips I never wanted to know-- but I did feel looser when I got home.

Enough of this semi-cryptic babble. I close by also thanking Amanda, Stinky, Mike, Alex, Julia, Jenna, Ashrita, Alissa, Schnapp, Hayley, Cesar, Victor, the two guys from G’s building, one of whom hung out in his diagonally striped tie, and last and certainly not least Gulshan’s roommate Heather the Floridian. Good Times!

Saturday, October 19, 2002

Personal note. I do not like midterms anymore. No longer are they a dirty backdrop to the sparkle of good times nor are they a measure of quick thinking. Now, they give me headaches-- I'm old.

Personal note. While I should have been studying I was watching Boise Sate vs. Fresno State, on Boise's blue turf. Good fun! There was an episode of the 5th Wheel. There was half of the X-Men cartoon Evolution. Pico should have worked on his crib sheet. But at least everyone else was in the room for a good long time also...

Personal note. The best place to scope out young liberal minded women might be Idealist.org's career fairs. My head was on a swivel yesterday as I roamed the conference center at Baruch College with my friend Jenna. She's known me since I was 13, she expects the infantile leering. Oh, but it was good. Mostly women, and many of them pretty and young. But not too young. Not like juvenile. Oh no. Stop looking at the screen like that. I'm not a dirtball.

Thursday, October 17, 2002

Ten More 10.17.02

1. Birds of Prey is possibly the worst semi-cool superhero show I have ever seen. And I say this after seeing Shemar "Huh?" Moore and Ashley Scott (who plays the Huntress) sweating in a sauna, their clothes conveniently shed for comfort.

2. So, G-Dubs, homie, president, and the gentle simian smile that leads our nation through these new days of prosperity-- are we worried about Saddam, Saddam, Saddam (to the tune of Marcia, Marcia, Marcia) or are we worried about this Al Qaeda network that we are supposed to be committed to subduing, over the long haul? Just a question. I just want to know who I'm worried about when the amber alert goes NY Mets orange.

3. Does anyone know that elections are coming up for something or other? When do these elections happen anyway?!

4. Speaking of elections, let's talk about this week's man of the people, running as the extra candidate in the NY State elections. Tom Golisano. I appreciate the fact that he actually put an interesting ad up-- did you know medical marijuana is legal here? Well, that's what Tommy Golly tells me on the television.

5. Why was I watching Birds of Prey? Fastlane was on. And it's on tonight also. There are good books to read, the Russian Debutante's Handbook being my current non-school book. Instead I marvel at the horrendous dialogue. Is she still talking?

6. So, where was this "N'or'easter," such a hell of a storm that it requires weathermen to cower in fear, put their drama faces on, and drop consonants from their communications school taught speak-- in Nebraska accents of course? I mean, super fucking yawn. There was some falling mist, some wind, but nothing to make me think I was suddenly dumped in Newfoundland or anything. Nothing like the great ice storms of 1994. Yeah, those were the days, kids, sliding on my ass over those 18 miles to school...

7. No, really, it's like 18 miles to school!

8. Yeah, it's more on the bus and subway. But still! Oh, shut your trap and kiss my grits.

Saturday, October 12, 2002

I'm Absent Again 10.12.02

It is not, again, a good idea to go out and drink until 3 AM and then plot out "homeworks" or "memos." Thing is, we don't have to worry about such foolishness like lack of inspiration, or an inability to write. I am well versed in bullshit. I can write WHILE sleeping. I'll show you sometime, ladies, if you come over my house with a bottle of wine and a dirty mind.

What I do lack today is the internal control to not tell people where to go, where to get off, and where to stick the rats they find there.

Also, slight hangovers, lack of sleep, and an urge for cheese laden chips can only lead a man to one thing-- college football. The knowledge that Texas and Oklahoma are strapping it on and the big uglies are swapping some paint, in the words of Keith Jackson. I want to be splayed on a couch with chips at arms' length, and my feet up, a blanket around me, and my hand deep in my pants. I want to be too tired to turn off a West Virginia or Ohio State game, which invariably will be uninteresting.

Wednesday, October 09, 2002

Three years later, Bush's pledge to seek a more streamlined US global military presence has been cast aside under the guise of fighting "terrorists and tyrants" of Washington's choosing.

Since September 2001 US forces have built, upgraded or expanded military facilities in Bahrain, Qatar, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Oman, Turkey, Bulgaria, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan; authorized extended training missions or open-ended troop deployments in Djibouti, the Philippines and the former Soviet republic of Georgia; negotiated access to airfields in Kazakhstan; and engaged in major military exercises, involving thousands of US personnel, in Jordan, Kuwait and India. Thousands of tons of military equipment have been added to stockpiles already pre-positioned in Middle Eastern and Persian Gulf states, including Israel, Jordan, Kuwait and Qatar. And discussions are still under way with Yemen about increasing American access to facilities there and establishing an intelligence-gathering installation aimed at monitoring activities in Sudan and Somalia.

These forward bases, many of which have been arranged through secretive, ad hoc arrangements, currently house an estimated 60,000 US military personnel. This includes 20,000-25,000 troops in the Persian Gulf, poised to serve as the opening wave of a US invasion of Iraq.

Believe me when I tell you that John Carpenter's movie, Ghosts of Mars, is high comedy.

Set on a cheap soundstage with cheap dialogue and chinatown's best smoke bombs, Natasha Henstridge teams with Ice Cube (here known as Desolation Williams) to fight with ghostly Martians who take over the bodies of Mars' toughest incarcarees. That would be the incarcerated. I don't have to use real words.

The Martians, played by the remaining members of the LA Guns, Faster Pussycat, Hanoi Rocks, and Motley Crue, after they attended the Gwar/ Tomahawk show out in Tuscon, throw sharpened dinner knives at people's necks and tap on metal walls with plastic swords. Mick Mars grew some size to play the Martian leader, with lines like raaagh. And Grrrargh. Plus Rrgh? Aarrrgh!

Through the fan-blown smoke and through the red flood lights, through the backdrop-- of which they could only afford to paint ten-fifteen feet and then show the same bit of painted landscape-- the two stars fight some unforgettably weak alien individuals who, by the way, have easy access to the Ricky's outlet on Mars.

Though Ms. Henstridge wears conveniently fashionable tight baby blue sweaters, and though for some reason we get to see her stand up in some athletically form-fitting underwear; and though Ice Cube gets to sneer and look people up and down; and though the movie includes Duane Davis (Alvin Mack from the Program, among other movies), I have one more gripe.

Cube doesn't even get any.

How am I supposed to live vicariously through him??

Even Ben Affleck gets to call his mate Matt Damon and his brother Casey and tell them, I got J-Lo in the cah, and I'm off to tap that ahss.

John Carpenter, why did you make this movie? Do you hate people this much?

Tuesday, October 08, 2002

Maggie passed along some info for a writing contest... with no real prizes beyond the knowledge that you have done something silly with your month. The idea? November is National Writing Month.

I have a plan. I am going to revisit a few ideas, slap on all together, cover them with two coats of slick dialogue and link it with some platitudes on the human condition and say that it all works together. If Todd Solondz can do it, well, so can I? Right?

Here is your mission, fair readers. Plot ideas. For the novel you wish someone would write. Make it trashy, ridiculous, inane, bizarre. Think of two kids kissing violently, of wars that happen on suburban blocks, farmers obsessed with the word gulag, horses high on turpentine, the adventure of toenails past.

I wish to be inspired by your goofiest. And I won't bite your idea. If that happens, I promise you a dinner deep in Vegas as we head for a second round of hard gambling on my fiction writing dimes.

Well, in the past few years, I have turned into some spectacular kind of wimp. That's the only explanation, really. I am nervous in front of people when I shouldn't even give a fuck.

I was nervous as we were announced, in pairs. Like a starting line-up in basketball. Pete's playing small forward. Even though he's not, you know, small. In fact, I told him he'd play small forward like Kenyon Martin does. But of course, not with that athletic fury we'd all like to bring once in our lives. We'd stick power forward Matt on the perimeter, and his dad could play center. I'm the defensive shooting guard and Corey's our steady point.

That was a minute of your reading life you'd like to have back, isn't it?

After we have been seated at Matt + Angie's wedding, I am suddenly called up to give my speech/ toast. Really, I thought I'd have a few more minutes to collect my thoughts. But no, not at all.

I am in front of eagerly anticipating people, whom I don't know. Many of them graduates from the University of Buffalo. Dressed in their finery. Waiting for me to say something classic. I announce that I have no idea what I am going to say. I take a deep breath and begin to read some of the notes I'd written-- about how Matt and Angie were waiting for me to say the embarrassing stuff, how I was going to poke fun--

And then I started to ramble. I can't tell you most of the words I said. But in the ramble, I found a path, I found a tale of how good people always surround themselves with other good people, and so I knew Angie had to be quality... unless he'd lowered his standards. I began to speak directly to the newlyweds. And told them that I found them inspirational, natural. I ran out of safe words, because I wanted to say "Angie's not a bitch and she's not boring or demanding-- she's chill, she's one of the guys and still is feminine."

So I came up wit a reasonable facsimile of that sentiment, thanked them, raised a rambling glass, and put my sweating and twitching ass back in my seat.

You want to know all about the wedding weekend. You want to share the romance with me and come into the tunnel of love with nothing but a torch and a smile. Edge of your seat, wiping the salivation from your lightly whiskered chin. Yeah, it's also time to shave. Or bleach, in the case of some people. Don't worry, I've always thought the little peach fuzz was sexy, hon.

But, I won't delay you any more. The great adventure came to an end. Of sorts. My dear friend Matt is now a married man. Which he makes me realize is not at all the end of the adventure, it's a beginning. I'm going to tell you all about it.

I can't even believe I'm writing that line, Matt is Married. *!* That's just silly, he's too young. His wife is too cool. Not for him. That's not what I mean. But for this institution of marriage. It's like... fun, exciting. It gives me hope. I'm excited to get married too, I want to throw a party and be the guest of honor and wear fancy lad clothes and have people watch me make out with my bitch.

Okay, my wedding counselor told me that's the first step to a successful string of dates which lead to expensive rings and a reason to vacation in Aruba, with the "playas". And one day I will remove the word "bitch" from of my vocab.

We did dinner in White Plains a/k/a the Cracker Flats a/k/a the Pale Savannah, with the families, the two groomsmen and myself, the best man. Also in attendance were the bridesmaids, their boyfriends, Matt's sister, her boyfriend... and a waitress who asked "how could ya hate De-rek Je-tah?" (That's how, bitch. Dammit, I did it again.)

Around a table of food and a whole lot of conversation, where I made fun of groomsman Corey-- who conveniently looks like Joe/ Joey McIntyre, the littlest New Kid on The Block. Most recently seen singing gospel songs. Soon to be seen as the new drama laden teacher on everyone's ludicrous favorite, Boston Public. Luckily for me, Corey also is a schoolteacher. Easy cracks flew. he was a little flustered.

On the nerdy side of the table, Pete and I acquainted ourselves with another Pete and Nghi (sp? sounds like Ne-hay, I think) over every bad horror/ 2 AM soft core movie we could think up.

That required a decompression period. We went home.

I was picked up by the groom himself at a station named Graystone on the Hudson line of the Metro-North. Or Grayskull. Or Graymalkin. This is a ride I recommend to everyone, especially to Holiday, who will wax poetic about it one day in Harper's or Esquire. All you see across the gleaming Hudson are cliff faces from Jersey, densely covered in trees. Sailboats, sunlight, and soon, foliage. It's a ridiculous view.

And dressed at the hotel. Also beautiful. I don't receive an endorsement fee from them, and I am not into free name dropping. Hint. Hint. Holiday.

I start to fret over everything. The speech in my pocket which I decided in the morning I hated; the rings in Angie's hands; the way I looked in a tuxedo; the fact that I was really the ONLY single person at the wedding. Wait, there was also Pete. That's NOT what I was looking for. And my aisle-walking consort Jessica was also sweating a little, and we're in a small white room peeking looks at people filing into the hall. We've been blessed with some munchies to keep us from passing out and some water to keep the cottonmouth at bay. This whole procession thing is taking too long, and we've only run through it once; there is a small aisle and what if we trip? What if someone sneezes real hard? It's outdoors, what if we can hear a passing train? What if some jealous ex-lover is barreling down route 9 intent on breaking up the wedding?

But there we are, Jessica and I, arm in arm, a pair of horn players (yes, I was so nervous I couldn't tell you if they were playing the oboe or the skin flute) rocking out the wedding march. It's six in the evening; the sun is beginning to lay down towards the western horizon, over the cliffs. The water is shimmering less but blue and dotted with sailboats and turning over with gentle froth. Birds are nearby, the sounds of the upstairs party are over. Three columns of seats on each side of the aisle stretch about 25 deep and a white paper carpet covers the grassy stretch between us and the reverend at the altar.

It's about 65 degrees, enough for a slight chill but also decent for those in sleeveless dresses. Corey, Pete follow with their bridesmaids, Nghi and Greta; Matt and parents; Angie and parents.

It's on.

Wedding stuff happens. I present the rings. Shaking imperceptibly. No one notices.

I present a glass for Matt to step on. Actually, it's not a glass, it's a light bulb. I won't get into all that. It's symbolic, after all.

And as they kiss, I notice the purple ridges of clouds in the distance, the eyes of the bridesmaids, and I cannot help but smile my ass off.

As an aside, if any of you want to set me up with one of your cute friends, which (once I get my school crap all settled) I of course welcome... with open arms, not an open fly, you dirtballs... I want you to know I don't actually use the word bitch. I just thought it would be an excellent mood lightener.

Tuesday, October 01, 2002

Those dirty little shits in the Mets front office, Phillips and Wilpon, have fired Bobby Valentine from his post as manager of the NY Mets. Like it's his fault they brought some crap in. How can you make a free swinging .210 hitter good? How about your franchise player having an off year? Maybe they need a new voice, maybe they'll make fewer errors, maybe the inmates will be run out of the asylum-- Rey Ordonez, don't call the paying customers stupid, okay?

But I'll be sad to see the scheming, duplicitous Bobby V, the same man with the restaurants, the same man who squeezes wins out of a team that never has enough horses to compete no matter what the payroll is... it's sad to see him go. Instead of General Manager Steve Phillips, the man who can't bring elite pitchers in but sends decent major leaguers out. If you'd like you can watch a couple of them today-- Terrence Long (starting center fielder, all year) and Erik Hiljus (sometimes starting pitcher) of the A's, Darren Bragg and Matt Franco with the Braves; jason Isringhausen (All-Star closer for the Cardinals); Kevin Appier (second starter for the Anaheim Angels), et cetera.

Sometimes he gets decent major leaguers back (Mo Vaughn for Appier). And sometimes he gets Billy Taylor, a 40-year old middle reliever, for Terrence Long and some other player, perhaps Hiljus. Taylor pitched maybe twice and the look of horror on Mets' fans and Mets' players said it all. That was the end.